


while you're close

by deuxjolras



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Constipation, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22257697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxjolras/pseuds/deuxjolras
Summary: Local bard ready to throw fists to protect his witcher, gets hurt (heroically).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 46
Kudos: 956





	while you're close

**Author's Note:**

> [Jump to the end notes for detailed content warnings]
> 
> ♫ _You think you're safe, without a care_ ♫ _but without beta readers you'd be wise to beware_ ♫  
> [ **Zhenya**](http://eventual-consistency.tumblr.com) | [**Troven**](http://www.pillowfort.social/troven). I could wax poetic for half a page about how wonderful and encouraging you are -- sincerely, thank you.

It's a warm night and they've set camp on a clearing in the woods. A few rays of the evening sun are still battling their way down through the tree tops, casting shadows that dance with the wind. Geralt is keeping watch, technically, but they're close to the road and the stories told in the taverns around here are reassuringly mundane: Tales of everyday quarrels and entanglements instead of disappearances, deaths, and fear to stray off the path. It's bad for business, of course, but Geralt can't help but feel like he's breathing a little bit more easily. Like the air is less cutting and the world a little bit less hostile. So, Geralt's eyes follow the flecks of light dancing on Jaskier's face, take note of the smallest hint of wrinkles around his eyes that, in this moment, seem to be the only testimony of the years they've known each other. He's still wearing way too expensive and colourful clothing, still playing the same Elven lute, plucking away at the strings and muttering lyrics and commentary in a never-ending stream of consciousness. It's hypnotizing, in a way, to watch him. If Geralt finally dozes off just a little bit, it can either be blamed on the soft light or on the fact that Jaskier settles on singing an annoyingly sweet love song in a low voice, something with seemingly a hundred verses and plenty of occasion to breathe the words “my love”.

It might have been a minute or an hour when Jaskier strums a lavish chord and whistles a final note before falling silent. Slowly, the noises of the forest register with Geralt again – rustling leaves and a wild animal moving in the underbrush a few hundred meters away. Still, he doesn't open his eyes just yet. His swords are pressing in his back and by all means it should be uncomfortable to lie down in full armour, but for a reason he's unable to name, he wants to drag the peaceful moment out for as long as possible before it's inevitably gone again.

"Hey!", Jaskier says indignantly and so loud that Geralt startles, "Did I sing you to sleep, Geralt? Is my artistry so boring? Or is your old age finally getting to you?"

Geralt grunts and does his best to fight back the smile that involuntarily tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Wake up!”, Jaskier demands, offence in his voice that Geralt still can’t say is playful or true. “How long have you been asleep?”

“Just a few minutes”, Geralt says. It takes some effort to open his eyes and prop himself up on his elbow. The view is still the same, only the light has shifted a little bit towards orange and red. _Time to light a fire_ , he thinks, feeling weirdly blank, and then he's thinking about how he wouldn't risk it if his travel companion didn't complain about the cold every night they spend outside but now it's not even a question anymore. How during the years of knowing each other, they've settled into a routine, with Jaskier accommodating for Geralt and Geralt accommodating for Jaskier, and yet.

_We're not friends._

“Just – _just a few minutes_?”, Jaskier sputters. “Really, Geralt, that could be anything, you probably didn’t hear a single word that I’ve–”

A branch snaps and the loud, harsh noise immediately shuts down his foolishness. In the fraction of a moment, Geralt is on his feet, frozen in motion and focussing on all of his senses.

“What's wrong? Geralt?”

Jaskier scrambles to his feet and looks wildly in all the wrong directions, all while making enough noise to mask a whole army advancing on them. It's only after a few seconds that he gets the hint and freezes as well, lute clutched tightly to his chest.

Geralt closes his eyes and listens, _waits_. Only a few moments pass in silence, though, before Jaskier makes a small noise that indicates he's going to ask Geralt what's going on. Without moving his head, Geralt sharply raises his left hand to silence him. He senses that the other side, whoever they are, are lying in wait just as he is. The snapping branch sounded like a boot taking a careless step, so Geralt’s coin is definitely on a human attacker, unless boots have gone in fashion with the nekker crowd while he was out of town. Seeing how he is awake and in possession of all of his weapons, they must either be incredibly reckless humans or not know what they're in for. Still, Geralt reaches over his shoulder to draw his steel sword, to be as ready as possible when –

Another branch snaps, without caution this time and a little closer than Geralt anticipated, and then the attack washes over him. As he sends the first attacker flying back on his ass with a swift kick and has the second one topple over from a hit in his ribs, both of them disarmed within the blink of the eye, Geralt realises this doesn't count as combat, maybe not even as a brawl. He turns around and takes stock of the remaining three attackers – armed with shortswords and a crossbow, he notes, built for fighting and, judging by the fact that they went into a fight by five against two, not necessarily out for killing but for possible valuables in Geralt's saddle bag.

Not that there are any. Peaceful territory really doesn't make for stable earnings, and the coin earned from Jaskier's latest ballad about Geralt defeating a Bloedzuiger was spent on new, light-blue garb just two days ago, so there's really no need –

One of the bandits, probably overwhelmed by confusion at the quick turn of events, runs forward yelling, holding his sword with both hands and possibly hoping to impale Geralt by the sheer force of momentum. Geralt has plenty of time to disarm him with one strike of his sword and then adjust his grip on the hilt to bring it forcefully down against his assailant's sternum, causing him to tumble backwards as well. Hoping this will suffice for the group to get the hint and take to their heels, he turns to the remaining –

– _fuck_.

“Drop your weapons”, says the fifth bandit slightly behind him, to his right, which is exactly where Jaskier was standing right before the attack began. Geralt turns around and, fuck indeed, he's still in the same spot, only that he now has a knife to his throat and a shortsword to his back. For a few seconds, Geralt feels thrown off course, furious with himself; he was counting on Jaskier diving out of danger's way while he took care of the situation, _he was making sure_ he had enough time to do so, but instead –

It's not entirely clear to Geralt what happened instead.

Jaskier grimaces at him. “Sorry”, he says, “I was too slow.” He's way too flippant about the situation with the knife, even lightly shrugs at Geralt's glaring, and just –

– won't – stop – struggling.

“Jaskier”, Geralt says sharply, and obviously what he _means_ by that is that no one with a single ounce of common sense in their head would struggle that much with a blade pressed against their neck, but of course Jaskier doesn't listen to any of it.

“Drop your weapons”, the bandit repeats, this time with more force behind her words, and she makes deliberate eye contact with Geralt as she presses the knife just a fraction deeper into Jaskier's skin. Geralt suppresses a groan and, to gain a few moments to think and to assess the situation, makes a show of raising his sword and putting it down by his feet at an angle where he can easily grab it again. The crossbow pointed at his back is not great without it but, unless the shooter has a marksman's ability, also not impossible. Plus, three of the group are still out of action. The knife at Jaskier's throat is of course the first thing to address, but the bandit has a weak stance on the uneven ground and if Geralt pushes forward with the element of surprise on his side, he will be able to shove Jaskier out of the way and to safety before she can act. But, the least thing he wants is for the situation to turn violent, and there's still the option to simply let them have their coin and be on their way.

Still contemplating, he reaches over his shoulder to pull his silver sword out of the back sheath and place it –

“ _Watch out!_ ”

One of the bandits is struggling to push himself up and to point at Geralt's silver sword. “Fuck”, he groans. “He's a Witcher!”

Again, an impulsive attack: There's a buzz and a shift in the air and a bolt is scorching towards Geralt. It's badly aimed, leaving Geralt room to deflect it. In a moment of bewilderedness, he asks himself how they noticed it only just now despite his hair, eyes, the witcher medallion on his chest, and three of their friends knocked out by a single opponent.

There's a pause, just for a fraction of a moment, right before the situation tips into one direction or the other, and Geralt doesn't move, waiting to see what it'll be: Flee – or attack to kill.

“DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE!”

Jaskier's voice cuts through the air, and, all thoughts of dropping his sword abandoned, Geralt swirls around to protect –

But Jaskier isn't being threatened, he is struggling with his captor violently, kicking and punching and driving his elbows in her stomach. Maybe through the surprise of being confronted with an act as stupid and dangerous as that, she drops the sword, but the blade remains at his throat, unfazed by the show.

Geralt opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , to make him stop, but Jaskier beats him to it again, seething with anger. “Shooting at an unarmed man! What are you, our executioners? Hangmen? Cowards, that’s what you are, the lot of you! Go – to – fucking – hell!”, and he punctuates each word with a kick that has him straining dangerously against the blade. Geralt sees her lose her footing, both of them swaying together, and then, with a grunt, she rips the knife away from Jaskier's neck and violently drives the handle against his temple.

A shout is ripped from Geralt's throat as Jaskier staggers and sacks in her arms, his legs seemingly unable to support his weight. Geralt's mind feels numb, thoughts of strategy having vanished all of a sudden, and all he can do is stare at the way Jaskier's head is hanging on his chest, and watch as the bandit has to hold him up with both arms. _It's like this every time_ , he thinks after a second or two or ten, seeing Jaskier injured makes him remember how easily he can get hurt from something mundane like a knife handle and a badly-aimed hit, how dangerous it is for him to follow Geralt on his endless hunt for the next monster.

“ _Please_ ”, he says, desperately, and his own voice sounds to him as if it comes from underwater, “he's harmless, let him go and just take –“

With a furious yell, Jaskier slams his head back into his captor's face, and there's a sickening noise of breaking bone. Geralt has only a fraction of a second to realise that Jaskier must have been bluffing before they're both toppling over, Jaskier gripping her hands to push the knife away from him, and –

Two bolts are rushing at Geralt in quick succession, and as he deflects them with a furious growl, he finally lets the fight get the better of him. Raising his silver sword for a forceful swing, he is ready to advance on the crossbowman, but the man screams, seemingly terrified of Geralt, and, stumbling backwards, drops his weapon, and Geralt rushes back to where Jaskier –

Jaskier is scrambling to his feet, stumbling backwards until he's at Geralt's side before the bandit can get up again, and his posture is a bit hunched, but he seems to be okay. Geralt spots the knife a few meters away and sees the bandit's eyes flicker towards it as she brusquely wipes the blood off her nose. “Don't try it”, Jaskier gasps, “because I _will_ pull out your guts through your nose”, but he's noticeably swaying on his feet.

Geralt grabs Jaskier's arm to support him and points his silver sword towards her. “Piss off”, he says in a low voice and doesn't move as he watches her stumble towards the others to drag them to their feet. They keep looking over their shoulders as they make their retreat, slowly and beaten.

Then he turns to Jaskier.

It is clear that something is wrong by the absence of noise alone: Jaskier isn't cheering about their victory, nor is he boasting about his involvement or spitting rhymes for a new ballad. In fact, he hasn't moved at all since Geralt pulled him up. His shoulders are still hunched, and with a sudden, leaden dread Geralt realises it's because he's pressing his arms against his chest.

“What did you do?”, Geralt asks, only that it apparently comes out rough and accusing because Jaskier flinches. Geralt's hand hovers over his shoulder for a moment, hesitant, and then he opts for adding “Let me see”, trying for a gentler tone.

Slowly, Jaskier turns around. He doesn't look at Geralt but instead keeps his gaze strictly trained upwards. It takes Geralt a moment to realise he's avoiding to look at – _fuck –_ his left hand that is completely soaked in blood. Cautiously, Geralt reaches out with both of his hands. “Let me see”, he repeats.

Jaskier shoves the hand in his direction somewhat brusquely while still refusing to look at it. After another moment of hesitation, Geralt carefully opens his fingers to get a good look at the two gashes across his palm. They have the look of a wound caused by someone trying to grip a blade with their bare hand and losing out to their opponent.

“Can you move your fingers?”, he asks, but Jaskier is not listening. “That's it, isn't it?”, he says in the direction of the darkening sky, his voice tipping over backwards. “I will never be able to play again. I'm ruined! I can't even feel any pain, it's probably all dead already!”

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, feeling helpless as the space between them fills with Jaskier's flat and way too fast breathing, “You need to focus. Move your thumb.”

Jaskier makes a wheezing sound, and there's a way too long pause, but then he's doing it, and relief falls heavily from Geralt's chest. Carefully, he touches Jaskier's index finger. “Now this one”, he says, and they slowly make their way through all of the fingers on his hand. Then, Jaskier shudders and falls silent again, his eyes closed now.

“You'll be okay”, Geralt hurries to say. “It's not as deep as it looks, just bleeding.”

“'Just bleeding?'” Jaskier's voice is uncharacteristically high, but at least he's responding. “My whole arm is drenched in blood and you call that 'just bleeding'? I'll tell you what, Geralt –”, but he sways a little bit and Geralt takes the opportunity to say, “Sit down”, and to guide him to the ground.

Worryingly enough, he stays quiet. Geralt makes haste to get to Roach, mumble a few comforting words in her ears and pull a bottle and some dressing cloth from the saddlebag. When he returns to Jaskier and kneels down in front of him, he is pressing his injured hand against his chest again with no care about sullying his jacket at all and restlessly plucking at blades of grass with the other. He doesn't flinch when Geralt cleans the wound, only the tiniest bit when he pours a swig of alcohol over it, and still refuses to look at his hand even when it is wrapped in a bandage. The sun is setting for real now and Geralt helps Jaskier to the fireplace, unworried about lighting it up, now that their presence has been made known to any living being within a kilometre’s radius anyway. Then, for good measure, he picks up his lute and carefully stows it away with his luggage.

The first flames cast dancing lights and shadows over Jaskier, not unlike the evening sun earlier. Still, the light mood and easy contentedness at Jaskier being with him suddenly feels like a lifetime away. As Geralt is watching his huddled form, it fully sinks in to him that it was Jaskier's reckless intent to protect him that got him injured.

_I need no one, and the last thing I need is someone needing me._

And yet, Jaskier keeps coming with him, keeps _choosing_ to be with Geralt even when Geralt doesn't understand what he gets out of it.

 _We're not friends,_ and yet, Jaskier is stubborn and keeps getting himself into mess after mess and expects Geralt to help him out of it, but he does, he always does, and Jaskier stays, and Jaskier tried to protect him –

“I don't need saving”, he growls, maybe blurts it out, almost surprised to hear himself speak. Jaskier stirs at this. Finally, he raises his head to make eye contact, but his face, still pale, is closed off.

“It sure seemed like it when you had your back turned to a lady with a sword”, he says stubbornly, but Geralt ignores him.

“You stupidly put your life at risk, and for what? They just wanted our coin.”

“Alright!”, Jaskier says very loudly because of course he has to take this personally. “My fault is in not being a skilled fighter, I see. Fine.”

Geralt grunts, at a loss at how to respond to this. He blows on the fire, and then says, “Maybe it is”, and it's the wrong thing to say because Jaskier throws his hands in the air and is on his feet again, suddenly towering over Geralt. He stumbles, but before Geralt can move, he catches himself again. “Teach me how to fight properly, then!”, he says. “But don't expect me to watch someone threaten you and not do anything!”

“I had it under control”, Geralt says firmly. He wipes his hands and stands up as well.

“You were”, Jaskier says, pointing at Geralt's chest with his right hand, and then pausing to take a few alarmingly quick breaths, “defenceless! And they were shooting at you! Excuse me if I got a tiny bit worried.”

It makes Geralt pause for a moment, Jaskier being worried about him. “I would have managed”, he finally says, because it's true and he doesn't know what else to say.

Jaskier glowers at him. “As you always do”, he says in a dark voice. “Until you become slow and die, isn't it? Great. Fantastic.”

There's a moment of silence as he searches for a response, to let Jaskier know that –

– that it's hard, to imagine something else than this, unthinkable even, and that he's scared that what they have is just life in transit before Jaskier will inevitably leave when he'll need something more, something better, something that Geralt can't give to him, doesn't know how to give, because he has lived like this for as long as he can remember.

“You're so fucking daft, Geralt”, Jaskier says when he stays quiet instead. He pulls away and it's instinct, not thought, that makes Geralt reach out and take his right hand in his, holding it in his own to silently plead for more time to find the right words. Even more than in a fight that he can't control he feels out of his depth, wanting to follow Jaskier's lead, wanting to comfort him, wanting him to stay for just a little while longer, so he says “You will be able to play again soon” and “I will teach you how to defend yourself if that's what you want”, hoping it's enough, hoping it's something.

Jaskier looks at him as if he's waiting for Geralt to say something else, and when he doesn't, can't, he says in a voice that conveys a deep lying exhaustion: “Well, you can't expect me to sit and cower when you're in danger. That's never gonna happen. I care for you, Geralt!”

Hearing him say it like it's a fact, a given is –

And responding –

“I would prefer for you to be safe”, Geralt says, hoping that what Jaskier will hear is –

“Well that's a stupid fucking sentiment, seeing how we are constantly hunting monsters”, Jaskier says triumphantly, as if he's won an argument that Geralt didn't realise they were having, but his tone is betrayed by him swaying on his feet again. Again, silence. They're looking at each other and in the low light, Geralt's face probably lies in darkness for Jaskier, whereas he can see his expression shift to something else, to hurt and defiance as they both know what goes unsaid.

“You're right”, Geralt says, feeling helpless, and “I'm sorry –”

For not being –

For being –

“I'm sorry for calling you stupid”, he settles on in the end. He looks at their hands, still joined in a light touch; maybe they're both too scared to hold on tighter. “You were brave”, he says.

To his surprise, Jaskier snorts. He averts his face, but when he turns back to Geralt, a little smile is tugging on the corners of his lips and Geralt's heart skips a beat. “You know I might include that in my next ballad”, Jaskier offers, and his voice sounds only a little smaller than usual. “At the very least, I will probably rub it in your face at least five times a day. Ha!”, he gestures weakly with his left hand as if to cut off Geralt who was really just breathing and fighting the sudden urge to tug him close and hold him, “protest is futile, you said it and I heard it, nothing to be done, Geralt, you've dug your own grave here. No! No negotiations.”

“I wasn't going to protest”, Geralt says, knowing it's a peace offering and taking it, clinging to it, and, after a pause: “I'm glad you're with me.”

“Yeah?”, Jaskier says and now his voice sounds way too small. With increasing worry, Geralt notices that he's considerably paling around his nose. Hurriedly, he lets go of Jaskier's right hand to turn over his left one instead and his heart skips another beat, if for a different reason, when he sees that the bandage is already drenched in blood again.

“I am”, he says, though, and then he props Jaskier up against himself right before his knees give in, and carefully – gently – lowers him to sit on the ground again. “I am”, he repeats, and removes the soaked cloth and cleans the gashes again and wraps them with a fresh bandage, and he caresses his knuckles with something akin to reverence, maybe, thinking _I care for you, too,_ and muttering “Can you lie down?”

As he helps him rest his head on Geralt's leg, Jaskier's eyes are pressed shut, his breathing getting even faster, blood drained completely from his face. Geralt doesn't ask him if he's hurting because it is obvious that the pain has kicked in from the way Jaskier's jaw clenches and his shoulders tense. When he combs his hair out of his face, the skin he touches feels clammy, and when his fingertips brush over Jaskier's right temple, he flinches. Worried again, Geralt leans over him to inspect the red and swollen skin, onset of a small bruise. He finds himself gently blowing some air on it, maybe not to ease the pain but to apologize for the touch.

“Were you honest?”, Jaskier says suddenly.

“With what?”

“Me being able to play again soon. About teaching me how to fight”

“Hmmm. I was.”

“Good”, Jaskier says.

Distractedly, Geralt threads his fingers through his hair again, cautious not to touch the bruise this time. Jaskier needs to rest, at least for an hour or two, he thinks, but then they need to keep moving to not make themselves an easy target and to gain ground to a village with a healer, just in case.

“You should sleep for a bit”, he says, arranging Jaskier's injured hand so that it's resting on Geralt's knee, elevated to keep the blood from rushing in, and then keeping it in his to apply steady pressure.

Jaskier strains his neck to look at their joint hands. “I like how you’re doing that. Care to do it more often?”, he jokes weakly.

“If you want to”, Geralt mutters.

Jaskier opens his mouth in silent surprise, but it takes him only a second to regain his composure. “Don’t tease like that when I’m supposed to get rest, Geralt, that’s unfair. You need to take care of my sensibilities and my tender heartstrings. Warn a man next time –”, he flinches visibly as a wave of pain rushes over him, and “Will you?”, he finishes weakly.

“Go the fuck to sleep”, Geralt says gruffly, but now he keeps threading the fingers of his left hand through Jaskier’s stubborn hair, and then, just because Jaskier is already opening his mouth either to comply or to protest, and because he thinks hearing his own familiar lines will calm him down,

“ _Awake, my love, awake, oh tender longing, soften the ache..._ ”

His voice doesn’t sound sweet and beautiful like Jaskier’s, not at all, and Geralt hesitates, feeling like he's ruining Jaskier's song, like the lines weren't made for him to recite. Then he feels Jaskier's body weight settle and sees his smile, small enough to be barely noticeable but still bright enough to make his whole face light up.

“You really did listen, then”, Jaskier says. “Earlier. When you were pretending to be asleep.” His voice isn't as smug as Geralt expected. Instead, he sounds so happy about it that it makes something hurt inside Geralt’s chest.

 _Soften the ache_ indeed. Carefully, but with a little more weight to it Geralt combs back the stubborn curl at his temple.

“I knew it”, Jaskier adds, though, as if it's an afterthought, and now he does sound pleased with himself after all.

“Sleep”, Geralt repeats with the smallest hint of a quiver in his voice. At that, Jaskier opens his eyes again and glares at him again, but there's a certain playfulness to it. “Don't tell me you're only holding my hand and reciting love songs because I'm injured”, he says.

“I'm not”, Geralt whispers.

And he still doesn't know how to think up a future for them, but this moment, humming the melody of an utterly ridiculous song that is about waking up on top of everything, just to finally, _finally_ get Jaskier to be reasonable for once and rest –

Geralt dares to think he wants to try.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Me, nervously watching my WIPs out of the corner of my eye:** I don't need to start writing yet another fic... and the last thing I need is a new ship  
>  **Jaskier:** And yet, here we are (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*✲ﾟ*｡⋆
> 
> I have a [Tumblr](http://threephasebird.tumblr.com) and a [Pillowfort](http://pillowfort.social/threephasebird)?
> 
>   
> **Content Warnings** : Depiction of an ambush and resulting fighting with no drastic injuries. A character is threatened with a knife and hit against his temple, resulting in light bruising. Non-graphic description of a minor character's nose breaking, semi-graphic description of a sword wound and symptoms of shock and blood loss.  
> [return to top]


End file.
